


From Hence, We Are None

by alpha_hydra



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-25
Updated: 2010-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-13 08:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_hydra/pseuds/alpha_hydra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Less of a "love story," and more of a "detached tale of modern alienation." Except, you know. With guns. And death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Hence, We Are None

**Author's Note:**

> This is all chickienine's fault, because she asked me after I was recovering from the star trek big bang if I could write her a 10k fic in a month. And I, like a fool, said, “Psh! 10k? I can do that in my sleep!” Oh, past self, how I hate you. Based loosely on the Rule of Rose video-game, as the parameters for this was to watch the opening and write a fic on what I got out of that. Needless to say, this is very creepy. Read this at your own risk, guys.

  
  
"Who shall tempt with wand’ring feet, The dark unbottomed infinite abyss And through the palpable obscure find out His uncouth way, or spread his aery flight Upborne with indefatigable wings Over the vast abrupt?" _

\--Paradise Lost, Book II

_ _(404-410)_   


  


***

 

It’s about four-thirty in the afternoon when Craig’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He bites back both the panic and hope that bubble up in his gut as he takes out his phone and reads the message.

 _Carl’s Warehouse,_ it says, _30 min_.

It’s from Kenny, Craig knows even if the number’s been blocked. He can only ever tell because even fucking Damian has his own cell now, and when Kenny gets a message straight from Butters—Chaos, it’s _Chaos_ now, because that thing that’s taken up residence inside Butters’ brain is nothing like the kid Craig used to know—the number will always be blocked. Mostly, he tries not to think about the person Kenny had to kill to get that phone, or the type of guy Damian, Christophe and Chaos have turned him into that he doesn’t bat an eyelash at death anymore. But Craig’s not fooling anyone; when was the last time he himself cared if Cartman killed someone? The last time he cared about anyone other than himself and—

A cold gust of wind blows by suddenly and makes him shiver. He pulls his coat tighter around himself and sends a message to Tweek with fingers numb from the cold.

 _Can’t make it to Harbucks today. Spotted Cartman and Damian around my neighborhood earlier. I don’t think it’s safe._

Craig hates lying to Tweek. Before this whole mess started, Craig never spoke a single damn untruth to the guy, but now, well, the only way he can even maintain contact with Tweek is through this fucking subterfuge. He can’t believe he ever agreed to be the fucking mole; he should have just taken Kenny’s advice and kept his head down. It’s not fair, honestly; his allegiance was determined by Chaos being too damn smart for his own good, and it’s all over fucking nothing. Craig is tired of living in a state of constant paranoia; if he isn’t careful he’ll wind up just like—

His phone buzzes again, and Craig nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Shit,” he mumbles to himself, pulls out his phone again and lets out a breath of relief when he sees it’s just Tweek.

 _Shit!_ Tweek’s message says. _Are you all right? They haven’t got you yet have they???_

“They” have had Craig since the very beginning, he thinks to himself. But instead of telling Tweek that, he types out a _Nah, I’m fine dude. Quit worrying so much,_ and hits send before he blurts out the truth to Tweek.

 _Stay safe, Craig,_ is the response he gets.

 _I love you._

Craig stares at his own message for almost five full minutes before he erases it.

 _You too, Tweek._

He hits send.

***

But really, it starts like this:

Chaos waits very patiently outside his hideout on an average, cold September night. Overhead it is cloudy, with dark, ominous clouds promising a deep frost for the morning. Chaos wraps his coat around himself to shield him from the chill as he waits. He suppresses a smirk as a distant rumbling shakes the damp earth around him. Only a sliver of the moon glimmers through the heavy cloud-cover, and what little light it does afford casts a pallid shadow over the dirt just outside his grimy hideout. There is a little pool of light, cast by the weak, flickering overhead lamp on his front porch, but beyond that oasis of light there is only darkness.

“What?” a cold, menacing voice calls suddenly from out of the shadows.

“Damian,” Chaos drawls calmly (a small, uncertain, wavering voice at the back of his mind starts at the sound of his own voice, insists that _this is not what he sounds like,_ but Chaos ignores it, chooses instead to let his smirk spread leisurely over his face).

“Did you call?” Damian asks, taking a single step out of the shadows and waving his hand over the muck to their right, glistening halfheartedly inside the little inverted pentagram drawn into the dirt.

“Yes, I did,” Chaos answers, “I need your help.”

Damian is silent, his dark red eyes gleaming in the moonlight as he sticks his hands into his pockets and scowls.

“It’s Butters, right?”

“My name is Chaos,” he says, anger flaring bright and hot into his words. “ _Never_ call me anything else.”

Damian crooks an eyebrow at that, but nods his head just a fraction. As quick as the anger comes, it is gone in a flash, replaced by a calm buzzing in his mind.

“So what,” he says, “you’re aiming for like, standard world-domination? Or what?”

Damian grins, displaying rows of neatly pointed, gleaming teeth.

“I think so,” Chaos answers, crossing his arms and offering Damian a grin of his own. It is not the entire truth, precisely, but it will do for now.

“Right,” Damian says. He takes a step forward, obviously enjoying himself. “And why should I help you?”

“I’m glad you asked, Damian,” he says, smirking.

This is what he’s been waiting for. He pulls out a battered, slightly damn envelope from his pocket and throws it to Damian. It lands heavily at his feet, a single corner falling into the dark red mess indistinguishable in the darkness. Damian picks it up and opens it almost lazily, but his expression quickly darkens when he looks inside it. He tips the contents of the envelope out into his outstretched hand, eyes blazing with fury as he does so. Bundles of gauze, stained so dark that the blood almost looks purple in the night, tumble to the floor silently, and a single, bloodied finger falls into the palm of Damian’s hand.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, and Chaos is pleased to hear an almost imperceptible waver of fear underneath his anger.

“Collateral,” Chaos answers. “See, I need your help. And I know someone else who could use your help too.” Chaos watches the way Damian’s fingers close around the dismembered finger in his hand, one by one, with something close to glee. “The way I see it,” Chaos continues pleasantly, “Pip is very comfortable where he is right now, more or less. He has plenty of ice for his hand and medics at his beck and call all around the clock.”

Damian scowls furiously at him, but still, he doesn’t say a word.

“He misses you,” Chaos says quietly, knowing that this is Damian’s breaking point. He’ll either agree to help Chaos now or kill him where he stands. “He’s been asking for you, you know.”

“Shut up,” Damian finally says, his voice shaking slightly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. So just. Shut the fuck up.”

“I know that’s not a rabbit’s foot you’re holding,” Chaos answers. “And I know that if you don’t want to help me, Pip’s as good as dead.”

Damian is quiet for so long that Chaos has a single fleeting second of doubt, but then—

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. What did you have in mind?”

“That’s a very good question,” Chaos answers on the ghost of a smile. “Are you cold?”

Damian blinks.

“What?”

“Are you cold?” he repeats. “We’ve been outside for almost an hour. It’s very lucky that it hasn’t snowed yet, actually. But where are my manners? Would you like to come in? We can talk inside.”

Damian narrows his eyes suspiciously, but after a minute, sidesteps the mass of flesh and blood in the dirt and enters the dimly lit warehouse behind them. Chaos watches him go, pleased that Damian too, is predictably human. He thinks, for a moment, of the sweet irony he’s created; with Pip buried somewhere deep underground, protected by ancient enchantments as old as the Devil himself. Old spells designed to protect people from evil now being used to perpetuate Chaos’ own evil machinations.

“Thanks for all your help, Dougie,” Chaos tells the muck.

It was Dougie, after all, who suggested it, who carved the spells into the basement, ensuring that Damian could not set foot into it. Dougie himself who drew the inverted pentagram in the dirt, without an inkling that Chaos might need a human sacrifice for this.

“You’re a real pal.”

And then, laughing, Chaos follows Damian inside.

Chaos, after all, has a war to start.

***

It takes Craig nearly 20 minutes to get to Carl’s Warehouse, and when he finally gets there, it’s almost another ten to wander through the labyrinth of hallways and passages that Damian has added to the place since the very beginning. He’s lucky that he doesn’t get lost this time, actually, because when he finally falls into the designated meeting room, Kenny, Damian, Christophe, and Cartman are all sitting around, waiting for him.

“Took you long enough,” Kenny says, smiling brightly.

Craig tries and fails to smile back.

“I was on the other side of town.”

“Pussy-chasing, no doubt,” Christophe mumbles around his cigarette.

“Hey man, watch what you say about—”

“If I am wrong, correct me,” Christophe says, a threat clearly underlying the statement.

His shovel is sitting on the table behind him, a small puddle of dark red mud pooling under it. Craig scowls, but doesn’t rise to the bait. Christophe laughs at that, absently unwrapping a dirty scrap of material from his left forearm. A large gash is revealed as he does so, one that runs from his palm all the way up to his mid-bicep. Craig turns away when the first few drops of blood start to leak out of it.

“What is it this time?” he asks Damian irritably. “Do you want me to babysit fucking Cartman’s fatass while—”

“Hey shut up Craig,” Cartman says from where he’s sitting. “At least I’m not hung up on some paranoid fucking goody-two-shoes.”

“Fuck you Cartman,” Craig answers.

“We’ve taken the western coast,” Damian says, in that quiet voice that never fails to end an argument. Cartman makes a pleased humming noise that Damian ignores. “Cartman called it.”

“You’re seriously going to give Cartman all of the west coast?” Kenny asks.

Damian shrugs.

“When the east coast falls, Kenny, you’ll get full control over the area,” he answers. “That was the deal.”

Kenny sinks back into his seat, crossing his arms and muttering under his breath. Craig takes his customary seat next to Kenny and waits. They don’t have to wait long. Seconds later, Chaos appears with a flash of smoke, with his usual penchant for dramatics, in the center of the semicircle they’ve made.

“Report,” Chaos says, and even though he doesn’t so much as turn his head to Craig, he knows who Chaos is talking to.

“The Resistance is meeting again tomorrow night,” Craig says. “We’re supposed to meet at Stan’s, who’ll take us to wherever they’re meeting this time.”

The Resistance formed almost immediately after Chaos took control of most of Colorado; it’s what happens when you split a town like South Park straight down the middle like Chaos and Damian did. Craig isn’t sure if Chaos actually thinks the rag-tag team of their friends—former friends—are any actual threat, but he’s hoping that Chaos thinks them inconsequential. Tweek’s safety depends on it.

“I see,” Chaos says. A toothy grin slides its way up his mouth, distorting his face in a way Craig is sure Butters’ never could look. “Perfect. Cartman,” he adds sharply, and Craig is pleased to see even fucking Cartman starts slightly at the sound of his voice. “Go talk with Baal about your new acquisition.”

“Aw man, I hate that guy,” Cartman whines, but he heaves himself out of his chair anyway and shuffles out of the room.

Chaos waits until the door slams shut behind Cartman before he so much as moves again. He turns to Damian.

“You will go with Craig,” he says. “You will stay hidden. You will follow them. When you are sure every single member of The Resistance is there, you will kill them.” Damian nods lazily, looking immensely bored. Craig feels something cold slip into his stomach and nearly stops his fucking heart. Chaos turns to Craig, his icy stare boring into Craig. “You will not interfere.”

It takes everything Craig has in him, but eventually, he nods minutely.

“Leave Gregory for me,” Christophe says from his seat, hauling his shovel back over his shoulder and splattering mud everywhere.

Chaos scowls at him furiously, and after a minute of staring each other down, Chaos nods sharply.

“Do not be seen,” he says. Christophe nods, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket as he does so. “We’re done,” he adds after a second. “You have five minutes to get out of here.”

And with that, he disappears as suddenly as he appeared. Christophe and Damian leave almost immediately afterwards, both of them nodding to Kenny and Craig as they leave. Kenny sighs heavily from his seat but doesn’t move.

“Hey dude, you okay?” Craig manages to ask over the panic welling up inside of him.

“Nah,” Kenny answers, resting his elbows heavily on his knees. “He’s completely stopped acknowledging my presence now.”

“Who?” Craig asks, disbelieving. “Chaos? Dude, why do you even care? I can’t fucking stand it when he looks at me; it’s like he’s ripping thoughts right out of your mind.”

For a long time, Kenny doesn’t answer. Finally, he stands and heads out, motioning for Craig to follow him. They maneuver their way through the warehouse quickly with Kenny leading the way, and in less than two minutes, they’re standing out in the moonlight.

“Do you know why I didn’t join The Resistance?” Kenny asks suddenly.

Craig shakes his head.

“Because Damian and Christophe are your friends?”

“Stan and Kyle are my friends,” Kenny answers. “ _Were_. No. I’m here because I know Butters is still in there somewhere. And one day, Chaos is gonna slip and release the fucking strangle-hold he’s got on Butters’ soul, and that happens, I’ll be right there, ready to shake some sense back into Butters and end this whole damn mess.”

“You’re a good friend, Kenny,” Craig finally says.

“Thanks dude,” he answers. “So, what are you gonna do about tomorrow?”

Craig stumbles slightly at that.

“What do you mean?” he asks suspiciously.

“Come on dude,” Kenny says as they round a corner and end up in front of Kenny’s house. “Even Chaos knows you only work with us to keep Tweek safe.”

“I don’t know,” he finally answers. “I have no fucking clue.”

When Craig leaves Kenny that night, he doesn't go home right away. He lingers around Stark's Pond, watching the way the moonlight sparkles across the heavy sheet of ice. There's not a cloud in the sky, and the moon is full tonight, so it's pretty bright out by the pond. He stares intently out into the distance, where piles of snow have settled haphazardly across the horizon, and really hates his life.

Kenny's right. Everyone knows he's only loyal to Chaos because it's the only way he could think of to keep Tweek safe. Tweek stays safe, and Craig is Chaos' spy. That was the deal. Surely, Chaos won't go back on their deal? He's got to know that if Tweek dies, Craig is out.

But then, if all of The Resistance is killed tomorrow night, Chaos won't need a spy anymore.

Fuck. All Craig wanted to do was keep Tweek alive, and now everything's gone to hell.

He doesn't sleep that night. Instead, he sits out by the pond until dawn finally breaks over the horizon, wondering if his life has ever been normal, remembering this time two years ago, when he'd convinced Tweek to come out to Stark's Pond to watch the sunrise and first realized he loved the spazz.

He's in over his head, and fuck. _He doesn't know what to do._

Well, no, that's a lie. He knows _exactly_ what he has to do; it's just that he doesn't know if he can. He knew, empirically, that some day he'd have to reveal himself as a traitor to Tweek; he just never expected the moment to come so soon. But it's less than 12 hours before he's supposed to meet up with Stan and those guys, where Damian and Christophe will both be hiding somewhere in the darkness, Damian with some supernatural aide and Christophe with that uncanny ability he has to disappear in plain sight. Craig is out of time, and he doesn't know what he's going to fucking do about it.

***

Butters doesn't understand why his mom and dad are so mad at him today. It's his sixteenth birthday, after all, and he's only just woken up. Surely he can't have done anything to warrant their screaming yet. Still, Butters is nearly shaking with nervousness as he clambers down the stairs. His dad is standing with his arms crossed, fury etched in every line of his face.

"Butters, you've got some serious explaining to do," his dad says ominously.

"I-I didn't mean to, Dad," Butters says automatically, even if he doesn't know what he's supposed to have done this time.

"Oh, you didn't mean to?" he asks. "You made your mother cry, Butters. Just what do you have to say about that?"

"Well, gee, I'm sorry, Dad—"

"Sorry won't cut it this time, Mister," he says. "I want you to march back up to your room and think about what you've done. You're not allowed out again for three days, at least!"

Butters turns on his tail and slowly climbs back up to his room. As he passes his parents' bedroom, he can hear a slight sniffling sound coming from the darkened room.

"Mom?" he asks, peeking into the room.

"Oh God, get out of here; get out of here!" she says hysterically, diving under the bed and sobbing.

"Mom, I don't understand," Butters tries, taking a step into the room.

"Don't come near me!" she screeches. "STEPHEN!"

Heavy footsteps thunder up the stairs, and Butters runs to his room and locks the door, trembling from head to foot. He doesn't understand; what had he done to make his mother so upset?

 _They hate you Butters,_ a cold voice says at the back of his mind.

"N—no they don't," Butters says, acutely aware of the strangeness of talking to the voices in his mind.

 _They couldn't care less about you,_ the voice continues. _They treat you like trash. Is that all you are, Butters? Worthless garbage?_

"I'm not garbage," Butters says into the quiet of his room.

 _Garbage,_ the voice says again. _I can help you, Butters. Let me help you._

"I-I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," Butters says, the only thing he can think of to say.

 _I'm not a stranger Butters. You know me very well._

Butters closes his eyes and sinks to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees as he does so.

"I’m not hearing you," Butters says, low, quiet. "I—I'm all alone in my room, and no one else is here, and I'm just talking to myself."

 _I can help you Butters,_ the voice says again, but gently this time. _Don't you want to know why they hate you so much?_

"I can't hear you," Butters says loudly. And then again, this time a whisper, "I can't hear you."

 _You can't ignore me Butters. It's not nice. Don't you recognize me?_

"No," Butters finally answers. "But—you don't exist anyway."

 _I exist, Butters._

Butters tightens his grip on his knees, because he's starting to feel strange, far-away and unreal, like he's in danger of floating out of his body.

 _Do you want to see how real I am?_

"No," Butters whispers, can't seem to make his vocal chords scream like he wants to. "Leave me alone."

 _I can't. You see, I need your help too, Butters. Maybe we can help each other?_

Butters is getting sleepy. He drops his head to his knees and stifles a yawn. Vaguely, he thinks it's weird that he can't feel his body so much anymore.

"Who are you?" Butters asks on nothing more than a breath.

 _I am—_

"Chaos," Chaos finishes, standing quickly and brushing off microscopic dust from the hem of his sleeve.

Without a sound, he unlocks his door and prowls out of his room, stopping just outside Linda and Stephen’s room, listening. Chaos has unfinished business to attend to. Linda’s voice floats out of the room, and Chaos bites back the manic grin at the memory of their last encounter. She has every right to be terrified.

“I don’t understand where we went wrong, Stephen,” she says with a quavering voice.

“Now, now, Linda, we mustn’t blame ourselves,” Stephen says, and oh, how Chaos _hates_ that man’s voice. It’s slippery and disgusting and Chaos wants to rip Stephen’s throat from his body every time he speaks. “That boy is nothing but trouble.”

Chaos curbs the predatory rage that threatens to bubble up to the surface and instead creeps downstairs to the kitchen. Chaos is patient. He can wait. Less than five minutes later Stephen marches into the room, doesn't so much as glance towards the corner where Chaos is lounging around near the cabinets. That's how Chaos likes it best anyway. He is used to being ignored; it helps to sneak up on someone when they have no idea he even exists.

In a flash, Chaos has his favorite butcher knife pressed against Stephen's throat; the man makes a choked-off whining sound, but silences at the sharp press of the steel against his flesh. Chaos watches the first tiny pinpricks of blood slide down the man’s throat.

"You disgust me," Chaos whispers.

"B-Butters?" Stephen asks.

It's, perhaps, the wrong thing to say.

"My name," Chaos says, his grip tightening slightly on the butcher knife, "is Chaos."

With a single, brutal swipe, he cuts through this man's delicate throat, drops him to the floor and listens to his agonized, terrified, gurgling rasps of breath. Chaos sneers and watches, watches his disgusting, worthless body writhe on the floor, scrabble for purchase on the neat, spotless tiles around him until at last, the body stills.

"Pathetic," Chaos says.

There's spattered blood all along the far right wall now, and Stephen's body now lies limp in a dark puddle of his own blood. Chaos crouches down beside the body and lays his hand flat in the pool. It drips down his forearm as he watches, stains the crisp white shirt Butters had wanted to wear on his birthday.

"Happy birthday, Butters," he says, a smile curving the edges of his lips.

 

Butters wakes up with a strangled cry, shaking uncontrollably. He’s just had the most terrible dream of—

He hears his mother’s scream from downstairs and jumps up from his spot on the floor, nearly slipping in his haste. Luckily, he catches himself on his bedpost, but that’s when he notices that the cuffs of his button-down are stained with what looks terrifyingly like blood. Butters shivers and bolts out of his room, nearly drowning in his panic. He runs down the stairs almost in a dream, following the sound of his mother’s sobs to the kitchen, stops abruptly at the doorway. His mom is sobbing into her hands, kneeling beside his dad, who is facedown in a puddle of congealed blood. On the clean, polished tile is a message smeared lazily in his dad’s blood. Butters’ heart stops beating when he sees it.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BUTTERS.

Butters is sent to a therapist shortly afterwards. He goes quietly, meekly, even though he has no memory of—of doing that to his dad, or of the threat he’d apparently scrawled on his mother’s bathroom mirror the night before. But “Chaos,” it causes a shiver to run up Butters’ spine, makes him remember the chilly voice inside his own head, the bloodstains on his t-shirt after his terrible dream and thinks that maybe, maybe he is crazy. He doesn’t want to think about it, and his first few meetings with Doctor Escobar feel like complete wastes of time until—

 _Butters is a fool if he thinks he can get rid of Chaos. There is such arrogance in him, that he thinks he can survive without Chaos there to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies. Chaos will not be ignored, will not be stuffed into the ignominious recesses of that boy’s mind, not again; he will not. As long as Butters has breath in his body, he will never be rid of Chaos—_

Doctor Escobar tells Butters that he has spoken with Chaos, and that’s when Butters really gets terrified. He _is_ crazy, after all, and his mom is right in sending him to live with his grandparents on the other side of town. Butters can’t be trusted anymore.

 _Linda is a bitch. The message he’d scrawled on her bathroom mirror is as true today as it was the day he wrote it, a halting message in her disgusting fuscous lipstick. It doesn’t matter much to him if he kills her now or the next time he so deems to reappear; Chaos is patient._

There is a day, about four and a half months after his mom first sent him to therapy, where Dr. Escobar declares that Butters’ psychotic break has finally been fixed.

 _Chaos spoke with Jason Escobar at length about the medication he had meant to prescribe to Butters. It was a very productive conversation, in Chaos’ opinion. Chaos knows where Jason lives, where his children go to school, and all those drugs meant to keep Chaos at bay wouldn’t keep him away for long. He’d find a way out again, and he’d make sure Jason knew exactly how much Chaos hated being locked in a cage. Jason Escobar does not prescribe Butters any medication, and that’s the important part._

Butters doesn’t feel any different, but Dr. Escobar assures Butters that he isn’t supposed to feel any different. Butters hopes he’s right. He’s relieved, honestly, and even if his mom still refuses to let him move back into her house, Butters is…he’s happy. He’s not crazy anymore.

 _After all, Chaos can be patient._

 

***

So, Craig decides about halfway through the next day that he's not a fucking coward. He can do this. It won't be difficult at all, he keeps reminding himself, even after he meets up with Tweek and they walk to Stan's house. Wendy and Token are already there, and they wait around Stan's house for about ten minutes before Kyle finally shows up. There isn't a better time to tell them all they're about to be killed, but still, Craig stays quiet. Stan and Kyle are the only two Gregory ever trusts with the information on where their next meeting place is, and so soon they'll be split into two groups for the long trek.

God, Craig is a fucking coward.

Kyle, Token and Tweek leave first, and after about ten minutes Stan leads him and Wendy out into the night.

"Hey Stan," Craig says, hands stuffed into his pockets so neither of them can see the way he's trembling. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure thing, dude," Stan says, sweeping his eyes over the dark alleyway they've slipped into. He’s got his right hand in his jacket pocket, and Craig isn’t naïve enough to think he isn’t gripping the handle of a gun tightly. "Is it about Tweek?"

"What? No," Craig says. _Not really, anyway._ "Why is it that whenever I have a problem, someone always assumes it's about Tweek?"

Stan laughs aloud at that; by their side Wendy smirks and rolls her eyes.

“No offense Craig, but you're not exactly subtle around him," Wendy says quietly.

"The only person who can't see how whipped he's got you is Tweek," Stan answers.

"Whatever," Craig says; he takes a deep, fortifying breath. He can do this. "But seriously dude. I—I need to talk to you."

"All right. What's up?"

Craig stops just before they hit the light of a nearby streetlight. He takes another deep breath but can't seem to find enough oxygen to make his words come out.

"Dude, calm the fuck down," Stan says. "You're not gonna have like, a panic attack over whatever this is, are you?"

Craig closes his eyes and counts slowly to five. Maybe he is about to have a panic attack. It’d be pretty damn fitting if he did.

"Here's the thing," Craig says weakly before he chickens out. "I'm a worthless fucking coward."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Craig," Wendy says immediately, in a voice that's clearly meant to soothe him.

"Yeah dude, I'm sure if you just tell Tweek—"

"This isn't about Tweek," Craig says, finding his anger and holding onto it desperately. "Look. I'm sorry, okay? I'm so fucking sorry."

"Craig, what are you talking about?" Wendy's on her knees beside him now, and fuck, how did Craig not notice falling to the ground?

"In about ten minutes, Damian and Christophe will be at your fucking—headquarters or whatever. They've got orders from Chaos to kill every single one of you."

There’s a tense moment of silence after his proclamation.

"That's not funny, Craig," Stan says angrily. "What are you trying to pull—"

"I'm trying to tell you the truth," Craig says. "It’s me. I’m his fucking double agent, emissary, mole, spy. Whatever you want to call it. I've been telling Chaos all your plans to bring him down. Did you guys ever wonder why it felt like _they_ were always one step ahead of The Resistance? It's because they were. It's my fault. Chaos told me that if I didn't—that he'd—and fuck dude. I had to keep Tweek safe."

It sounds so selfish when he says it out loud. He almost killed the seven people that had any chance of stopping Chaos, all because he's fucking hung up on his best friend.

Craig watches Stan's face change slowly from confusion to dawning horror. When Stan looks away into the darkness, he turns to Wendy, whose face is a complicated mix of betrayal and disgust.

"Fuck," Stan whispers. "How far away are they?"

"They were supposed to be following me," Craig says. "You guys have to go. If you're lucky, they won't have caught up with us yet."

Stan looks like he kind of wants to tear Craig apart for a second, but instead he beckons to Wendy, and together, they disappear into the darkness.

Craig doesn't move for what feels like forever; he still can't quite believe it. He's just out-ed himself as a spy, a traitor, and yet, he can't help but feel anything other than a profound relief swell somewhere in his chest. He doesn't have to pretend anymore, doesn't have to worry about slipping up, doesn't have to exist in a constant state of panic, looking over his shoulder, doesn't have to _lie_ anymore. Tweek probably hates him now, but at least Craig's kept him alive for another day. If anything was worth probably dying at Damian’s hands, it’s that. Knowing that Tweek is still safe for a few more hours, at least.

"Are you kidding me?" Damian says suddenly.

Craig's pulled roughly to his feet, Damian’s grip like a brand across his arm; Christophe is watching the two of them from a few feet away, leaning against the nearby streetlight that's only just flickered out.

"Where'd they go?" Damian says.

"I don't know."

Damian's eyes blaze in the darkness; Craig can smell burnt wool, looks down at where Damian is still clutching him and sees that the hand on Craig's arm has burnt a hole through his jacket.

"Fucking bullshit," Damian says.

Christophe sighs. He takes a deep pull off his cigarette before he crushes it under his boot and pulls his shovel out from the holster on his back.

"You probably should have seen this coming," Craig says mildly, because he doesn't answer to these guys anymore, and that's pretty fucking amazing.

"This too," Christophe says, brings his shovel up and crashes it into the back of Craig's head.

Craig stumbles for a second, then the ground comes speeding up to meet him, and he's out cold.

When he comes to, it's pitch black. He's lying on his back on a wooden floor, and when he brings his hand up to rub against the side of his face, he can feel something heavy and wooden encasing him.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Craig says to no one in particular.

When he tries to push off the lid of the box he's been stuffed into, it doesn't budge. Doesn't so much as creak with the effort, but a few pebbles do clink to the bottom of the box from the haphazardly shut top. That's when Craig starts to panic.

Those bastards fucking buried him _alive_.

***

Butters is getting worried. He’s developed a habit of blacking out at very inopportune moments; sometimes he’ll come-to where he blacked out, on the floor of his grandparent’s house or out by the bus stop, but others he’ll wake up in the middle of nowhere without a clue as to how he got there. This last time he woke up 34 miles outside of Beaverton, covered in motor oil and something that reeked of lighter fluid.

Kenny will know what to do. Butters is sure of it, because even when all the world’s gone to pieces, Kenny has always been able to keep under control. He’ll be able to help. But when he gets to Kenny’s house, he stands outside for nearly ten minutes, knocking on the front door (and later, the back, and after another five minutes passes, he even tries the window too), but no one answers.

“Kenny?” Butters calls out nervously. “It’s Butters. Are you home?”

There’s a loud crash from somewhere inside; Butters starts rubbing his knuckles together anxiously, hoping Kenny’s not gotten himself into trouble again. The front door opens a crack, just wide enough for one of Kenny’s bright blue eyes to peak through. Butters smiles nervously, clasps his hands behind his back to keep himself from fidgeting.

“Hey Kenny,” Butters says. “Can I come in?”

The door opens just a centimeter wider.

“Butters?” Kenny asks, almost incredulously, like he doubts Butters is really himself.

“Well, yeah, Kenny,” he answers. “Who did you think I was?”

Kenny is silent for a moment, before he suddenly bangs the door open and launches himself at Butters. The force of his hug nearly overbalances them, and Butters has to grab onto the rickety railing of Kenny’s front porch to keep from toppling over.

“It’s good to see you too, Kenny,” Butters says, just a little bemused.

“Dude, what the fuck happened to you last night?” Kenny asks, pulling away and smiling.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

Kenny must see something of the panic going on inside of Butters, because he frowns suddenly and leads them inside, where Butters almost immediately collapses onto Kenny’s old, worn sofa.

“You came by at like, three-thirty in the morning,” Kenny says uncertainly. He rubs the back of his neck, and it’s only then that Butters notices the ugly green bruise coloring the side of Kenny’s jaw. There’s an oozing gash all along his neck too, that goes on for so long that it disappears under the neck of his hoodie. “It was kinda freaky.”

“What did I do?”

Kenny shrugs with one shoulder.

“I don’t really know,” Kenny says, staring intently at a hole in his sneakers. “You weren’t really making a lot of sense. You said something about burning down an orphanage or something?”

Butters gets a sudden flash of memory at that: his hands tight around someone’s throat, buried up to his armpits in a vat of a black bubbling substance, the body of someone flailing madly while Butters’ laugh rings out, echoing in the empty room—

“Butters, are you all right?” Kenny asks, shaking him gently and pulling him out of the memory.

Butters takes a deep, shuddering breath, like he just emerged from a pool of cold water.

“I’m fine,” he says. He looks up into Kenny’s worried face, his eyes tracing over the jagged cut on his neck, the bruise darkening before his eyes. “What happened to you?”

Kenny blinks twice, runs his hand through his hair, and sighs.

“I knew right away you weren’t in control of your mental faculties, I guess,” Kenny says after a long pause. “So like, I don’t blame you or anything, but—”

“Kenny,” Butters says, feeling his eyes go round with shock. “You don’t mean—I didn’t—I didn’t do that to you, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” Kenny says firmly, kneeling in front of Butters and taking both of his hands in his own. “You called yourself Chaos.”

Butters still has his aluminum foil mask from when his childhood stint as a super villain. He can’t quite believe that his old alter-ego, Professor Chaos, has resurfaced after all these years, can’t imagine himself putting on that mask and anyone actually taking him seriously. But Kenny looks _terrified_ , his eyes snapping to the open door and back like he’s afraid Butters will suddenly snap on him.

“I think you must be mistaken, Kenny,” Butters says, trying and failing to stop the tremble in his voice. “P-professor Chaos is…he’s gone.”

“Chaos,” Kenny immediately appends, a visible shiver running up his spine. “His name is _Chaos_. You don’t—he doesn’t—like to be called anything else.”

And then he remembers, not a year ago, his therapy sessions with Dr. Escobar and Chaos and—everything. Kenny pulls off his parka, wincing as he does so, and on his old, yellowing tee-shirt are a series of dark red stains bleeding through the shirt. MY NAME IS CHAOS is scrawled plainly across the whole of Kenny’s torso, visible clearly through the shirt.

“Kenny,” Butters breathes, too horrified to say anything else.

Kenny smiles gently.

“Don’t freak, Butters, we’ll figure this out,” he says.

But Butters doesn’t want to listen. He can’t believe it; _won’t_ believe it. Chaos is gone. Doctor Escobar and his mother and grandparents made sure of it months ago. Chaos is gone.

He turns tail and runs.

***

The important thing to remember, Craig tries to tell himself, is to not panic.

Right.

Because he’s been, holy shit, _buried alive_ , and he could have been unconscious for fuck only knows how long, and he might run out of oxygen at any moment now and just. Fuck. The important thing is to not panic.

But if he had been on the verge of a panic attack earlier, trying to tell Stan and Wendy the exact shade of scumbag he was, he's sure as hell hyperventilating now. He can't fucking breathe, let alone scream. For a second he lets himself imagine suffocating to death, buried who-the-fuck knows how deep in some nameless place in the forest, his fucking grave unmarked and forgotten until the end of time.

It's nothing that he doesn't deserve anyway.

Craig beats his fists against the coffin's lid (coffin, he's in a fucking _coffin_ ; if he ever gets out of this he's going to kill those bastards), angry with himself, the entire situation, but mostly pissed at Chaos, who showed up one day in Butters' skin and decided to end the world in a fiery mass of death. He thumps his knee against the lid one last time, trying to reconcile himself with Death when—

Something thumps back.

He stills, wondering what the fuck might be happening. He doesn't let himself hope; obviously he's hallucinating. Because honestly, having to face his own death is bound to make Craig jump off the deep end, right?

But no. Now that he's not focusing on his own steady, shallow breathing, he can clearly hear someone above him. Someone cursing slightly and—and—

 _digging._

All the breath leaves Craig's body the second he hears a shovel scrape heavily against the wood encasing him. There's some muffled shuffling above him somewhere, and then with a beautiful creaking sound, the wooden lid is pulled away.

Christophe is standing over him, an unlit cigarette held in his mouth as he pushes the lid out of the way. Craig can see the half-moon shining brilliantly above them, and shit, Craig thinks it's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.

"Christophe, what—"

"Shut up," is the answer he gets as Christophe uses his shovel as leverage and jumps up and out of the hole. Craig thinks it looks almost nine feet deep. "Just get out before anyone sees us."

Craig doesn't need to be told twice. His body is still pumped with adrenaline, and he pulls himself out of his would-be grave easily. He's panting by the time he scrambles up to Christophe, who's by then lit his cigarette and smoked about half of it. It's started snowing around them, unsurprisingly, but Craig doesn't even feel the bite of winter on his skin (although he does wonder what happened to his jacket, come to think of it).

"Okay," Craig finally says, "I'm not complaining about you know, not dying or anything, but is there a reason why you just...um. Helped me? Because I'm pretty sure you were the one to you know, do the actual burying."

"Of course I tossed you in zat fucking stinkhole," Christophe says, like he's offended that someone somewhere wouldn't find him the perfect man for the job. "How do you think I knew where to find you?"

Craig decides that he's going to leave that alone, because yeah, Christophe knows at least six different ways to kill a person with nothing but a lighter and his bare hands. But he still doesn't really know why the fuck he's not currently dying a slow and horrible death underground.

"So," he starts, hesitant. He only just realizes that Christophe and himself have probably spoken about 10 words to each other since the start of their fucking acquaintance; no wonder he doesn't know what to say. "Um. Thanks, I guess." Christophe takes another pull off his cigarette in answer. "Is there any chance that you'll, I don't know, tell my why you just saved my life?"

"Zere is no time to explain," Christophe says, wiping the dirt and dusty snow out of his face. "Just go. Find Ze Resistance again before someone else finds you."

Craig can't help it then; he laughs.

"Are you kidding me dude?" he says, crossing his arms over his chest as the chill finally starts to hit him. For a second, he lets his bitterness creep into his voice. "They'll kill me just as quickly as Chaos would, if he caught sight of me."

"I do not think so," Christophe answers, dropping the still smoking butt of his cigarette into the dirt. His expression hardens suddenly, makes Craig feel like his skin is being slowly peeled away, so Christophe can examine him from the inside out. "Tell zose cocksucking pussies—tell Gregory..." He looks away suddenly, which actually terrifies Craig just a little bit. "Tell Gregory I'm not his fucking princess," Christophe says, kind of like he has to rip the words out of his soul.

And okay, Craig's not even going to ask about that shit. He’s a firm believer in not asking questions he almost certainly won’t like the answers to. Suddenly, Christophe's head jerks up again, his eyes narrowed as they sweep around the surrounding forest. "Go," he says quietly, and then again, just the tinniest bit more urgent, " _go._ "

Craig doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s out of there within the span of a heartbeat, hardly daring to look back, running through the forest on autopilot, until the trees thin out around him. The road is only about half a mile away; he can see it twisting over the landscape, a dark river twisting its way through the snow around it. Craig sighs, wonders just how the fuck he let this become his life, and climbs down the hillside, following the road back to South Park.

His first instinct is to go find Tweek, make sure he’s not dead and rotting somewhere in the city, but even as he turns down the familiar roads to Tweek’s house, he stops himself. He’s lost the right to check up on Tweek. Besides, all of The Resistance probably wants him dead now, anyway. He thinks about going to Kenny next, and although he thinks Kenny might understand Craig’s decision—hopes, maybe, that this is what Kenny had wanted him to do in the first place—he can’t really be sure he won’t end up back underground if he puts his trust in Kenny.

Craig is a man without a fucking country.

It turns out that the decision is taken out of his hands, as seconds later he ends up face to face with Kyle and Gregory, both armed with sleek black guns, both currently aimed at Craig’s face. In a moment of utter, utter hysteria, Craig manages to crack a smile.

"Is that a gun in my face or are you two just happy to see me?"

Kyle looks like he's trying very hard not to smile too, but Gregory's face remains impassive, his aim unwavering as he watches Craig.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, you know that, Craig?” Kyle says, the gun shaking slightly in his grip. “I don’t know whether to hear what you’ve got to say or shoot you where you stand.”

“The correct course of action, I think, would be the latter,” Gregory says, like he’s correcting Kyle’s grammar, and shit, he and Christophe deserve each other.

Craig holds up his hands automatically, scrambling forward so that they don’t broadcast this conversation across the entire neighborhood.

“Look,” he says quickly, remembering Christophe’s words and hoping like hell it isn’t some prank Christophe would find funny. “I’m sorry, ok? I know I shouldn’t even be showing my face around here anymore, but then Christophe said that—”

“You were talking to Christophe?” Kyle asks, disbelieving. “That’s not going to keep me from shooting you, dude.”

“No, I only talked to him because he dug me out of the grave he buried me in, and—”

“You were buried alive?”

“Yeah, sort of. But it was probably Christophe’s idea anyway,” Craig says quickly. “Damian probably would have just killed me on the spot instead.”

“So why are you trusting anything Christophe says?”

“Enough,” Gregory snaps, and for a second Craig is sure, _sure_ Christophe is the one who barks the word at them. Gregory finally lets his arm drop minutely, so that the barrel of his gun is aimed somewhere around Craig’s feet instead of his face. “What did Christophe say?”

“He said,” Craig takes a deep breath, hoping he’s not about to get himself shot. “He said that he’s not your fucking princess.”

Kyle scoffs quietly, looking away with a smirk on his face. But Gregory, he frowns thoughtfully, lets his arms fall to the side and takes a step forward. But when he starts to take another step, he stops mid-movement, seeming to come to grips with himself. Instead, he turns on his heel and disappears around the street.

“Come on,” he calls out, and Kyle and Craig exchange a single bewildered look before they follow him.

Gregory takes them to a run-down building on the outskirts of town, less than an hour away from Carl's Warehouse. Craig's fists clench in the pockets of his jacket as he follows, eyes darting to Kyle every now and again. Kyle is staring down at the floor intently, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Craig really doesn't want to know what he's thinking. Mostly, he's worried if that line of bullshit Christophe told him to say will actually keep him from getting killed tonight.

At this point, he's not sure if he cares all too much.

Gregory raps his knuckles against the front door three times, softly. It opens without a sound into a dark, deserted corridor. Gregory jerks his head to the left slightly, which Kyle takes as an instruction to move deeper into the house. Craig takes a few steps out of the cold; the door closes with a soft snap behind them.

There's a rustle of movement from the entranceway Kyle disappeared into, and when he follows Gregory into the room, he sees Kyle sitting stiffly on one of the couches, Stan, Token and Wendy seated around him. They all wear matching suspicious looks, Token clutching the handle of his switchblade menacingly. Craig swallows, and the sound echoes loudly around the dank room.

"What's he doing here?" Token finally asks, his eyes flashing with betrayal.

Craig supposes he's got the right to feel betrayed. After all, they were friends first.

"Are you looking to get killed tonight?" Stan asks quietly, his voice unnaturally cruel in the stillness of the room. "Cuz you're sure making it easy on us."

"Don't ask me," Craig says, because honestly, he really doesn't have any idea what he's doing here either.

Stan, Token, and Wendy all turn to Kyle, who shrugs helplessly and nods towards Gregory, who by then has crossed to the cold fireplace. He is silhouetted against the gleam of the brass grate, hands crossed behind his back, his shoulders a stiff, straight line. He says nothing for a moment.

"Christophe is with us," he finally says over his shoulder, not bothering to turn and face the rest of them.

"Just how do you figure that?" Wendy asks, the beginnings of a scowl darkening her features. "When he's been taking orders from Chaos since the very beginning?"

"Oh, don't fucking tell me," Kyle says suddenly. "That…that... _bullshit_ Craig said about princesses actually means something to you?"

Gregory turns to them, at that. Just a sliver of moonlight falls across his face from where he's standing; it makes his eyes look cold and distant, gleaming like blocks of frozen steel. They bore into Craig, until he feels frozen to his spot, unable to move. Finally, after a second that feels like an eternity, Gregory sweeps his gaze over the others.

"Christophe is tired of playing," Gregory says, and it sounds like a statement he's gotten used to saying over the past few years. "If we have a plan, he'll stay out of our way."

Craig doesn't want to know how _I'm not your princess_ translates into anything even remotely like a statement of surrender, but it's keeping Craig alive at this point, so he's not about to complain. There’s bound to be an interesting story behind it, and maybe one day when he’s not in danger of dying, he might ask one of them about it. If they all live past tonight, that is. Gregory turns back to Craig, eyes searching, like he can pull out Craig's secrets with nothing more than his stare.

"I need you to tell me how to get to Chaos," Gregory says slowly, like it's not the most insane thing he's said all night, like it's actually _possible_ to find Chaos in the maze that used to be Carl's Warehouse.

"I don't know if I can," Craig says honestly. He looks down at his shoes. "I can take you to Carl's Warehouse; it's where we meet, and show you through the mess it's become, but I can't guarantee that you'll find him there."

Wendy makes a scoffing noise in the back of her throat; Craig looks up in time to see her and Token exchanging eye rolls. It's then that he realizes someone's missing from the scene.

"Where's Tweek?" he asks belatedly.

The room is silent with the unspoken answer, but Craig can hear it, plain as day, as if someone had shouted at him.

Tweek is gone.

Chaos knew. He knew Craig would act like he did, that had to be the only answer. This was just, what? Some sort of test that Craig failed? He hates Chaos suddenly, that he can understand people better than they themselves can, that he can formulate fucking, fucking convoluted bullshit for no fucking reason whatsoever—

"You'll take us tonight," Gregory says, determined. "You'll help us remain undetected. If everything goes as planned, by the end of the night we'll have both killed Chaos and rescued Tweek."

Craig nods, setting his jaw even as dread begins to pool in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes it feels like Chaos is fucking invincible, but underneath all the smoke-and-mirrors, all the magic tricks, he's just a kid hardly older than Craig himself.

They can do this.

***

When it happens again, Butters goes to Dougie. He thinks, hopes, that Dougie is a little bit like Kenny, that Butters can talk to him about all the strangeness going on in his life without the bewildered expression he might get from someone else. He wants to go to Kenny, wants to listen to Kenny’s soft, unwavering voice telling him that they can work through this, but he can’t erase the image of those letters sliced into the flesh of Kenny’s torso, Chaos’ name carved into the world for all to see again.

Dougie blinks at him once, almost mildly, when he opens the door; Butters is standing on his doorstep, shivering in the chill of late spring.

“Heya Dougie,” Butters says nervously. He wants to rub his knuckles together, but he’s wrapped the bloody mess of his right hand carefully, knows that such an action will merely cause him pain and more anxiety than anything else. “Can I come in?”

Dougie stares at him for a second, almost shrewdly, before he steps aside and lets Butters in. Butters crosses to the dining room, pacing nervously around the large square table. He doesn’t really know where to start.

"Heya Dougie," he says again, aware suddenly that he must look stupid, fidgeting anxiously with the bindings on his hand only minutes after dawn. "I—I think I've got a problem."

"Oh, you mean that Chaos thing?" Dougie says after a moment. "Yeah, I kinda figured."

Butters shakes his head, confused.

"H-How do you know about Chaos?" Butters asks, whispering the name, like saying it aloud will summon him.

Dougie shrugs, circles around the dining room table and into the kitchen.

"Are you thirsty?" he asks. "I've got Diet Coke and orange soda."

"Dougie, hold on a sec," Butters says. "Who told you about Chaos? And well, orange soda, please."

Dougie brings a can of store-brand soda, Butters watches the condensation trickle down the side of the can like teardrops.

"You did," Dougie answers. "Well, Chaos did."

They're silent.

"C-Chaos talked to you?"

"Well, yeah," Dougie says. "Don't you remember?"

Butters shakes his head, clutching his soda can tightly in his hand. He remembers the inch-long marks on Kenny's torso, written in blood across his best friend's body. He can't imagine the same thing happening to Dougie, who's sixteen and nearly half a foot shorter than the kids in his grade, suffering through the same and speaking so nonchalantly about it to the man who did it.

"What did he want?"

Dougie shrugs, takes a long drink from his can of Diet Coke.

"Nothing really," he answers. "Wanted to know if we were still friends." He hesitates suddenly, looking away and pushing his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture. "We are, right Butters? Still friends, I mean?"

"Well, yeah Dougie," Butters answers, feels the first smile in weeks creep up his face. Dougie looks up from where he's been inspecting the floor and grins weakly. "Of course we're pals."

When he leaves Dougie's house, he doesn't have any of the answers he had come for, but he's got an optimistic swell in his gut that has him smiling to himself nonetheless. He hasn't talked to Dougie in a long time, since the first time Chaos came and—and—killed his dad. It's good to know that after almost a year, they're still friends.

He's humming to himself softly, not really watching where he's going, when he bumps into Cartman suddenly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Eric," Butters says, giving his friend a hand up. The heavy-looking trash bag he'd been carrying tumbles to the floor, and Cartman hastens to pick it up, even as a rip begins to appear near the bottom. "Heya Eric, did you need some help with that bag?"

"No, no Butters, it's cool," Cartman says, obviously distracted. Suddenly, his head snaps up in a way that reminds Butters, somehow, of his problem with Chaos. "Actually, Butters, I think you can help me. I've got this...project, right?" he waves his hand vaguely over the black bag at his feet. "But I don't know if it'll work. I need a test subject."

"A test subject," Butters repeats, automatically rubbing his knuckles together and snatching them apart when it causes an excruciating burn to run up his arm. "Well, gee, Eric, I don't know."

"Oh come on Butters, don't be such a pussy," Eric needles.

Butters has always been powerless against Eric Cartman's needling, for reasons even Butters doesn’t really understand. He takes a deep breath, fidgets with the gauze carefully wrapped around his knuckles.

"Well, all right, Eric," he says, and Eric grins widely, in a way that doesn't make Butters feel better about his decision.

"Awesome," he answers. "Meet me out behind Old Man Denkins’ pony ranch at midnight."

And without even waiting for Butters to agree to the meeting, he hauls his bag over his shoulder and marches off.

Butters has a deep sense of foreboding the second Eric walks away.

He goes home and has to rewrap his hand again, disinfecting his bloody knuckles and trying very hard not to listen to the news report about three grown men beaten to death in Denver by an unidentified assailant. After all, Denver is a dangerous town. It could have been anyone.

***

It turns out, Gregory has been formulating a plan to storm Chaos' lair or something for a while now. Apparently, he had been waiting for fucking _Christophe_ to get bored or something, which, wow, isn't something Craig wants to think about. It's simple, really. They go in pairs, meticulously searching the compound until they find either Tweek or Chaos. Craig tries really hard not to imagine them running into Damian or Cartman instead. But he does think of Kenny, stubbornly refusing to leave Chaos' side because he still has a shred of hope that Butters will emerge from Chaos' insanity.

He wants to tell them, to warn The Resistance not to hurt Kenny, but they walk with a steely determination that Craig's ashamed to admit he doesn't know how to penetrate. Mentally, he says his goodbye to Kenny and sighs.

It doesn't take them too long to reach Carl's Warehouse; they all know the city too well already. He leads them through the hidden entrance, the heavy cellar doors about three feet away from the building that open up impossibly to a long, winding staircase, made almost entirely of metal. If the others are surprised, they don't show it.

"Stay close," Craig whispers, afraid that his very breath may be enough to alert Chaos of his presence.

He climbs the winding staircase with Gregory at his side, the other boy as silent as a fucking ghost, his face determined and unreadable. Craig sort of understands why him and Christophe are friends now.

Craig doesn't want to see Gregory, ever composed, lose his temper.

Fifty-four steps later, they reach the first landing. Craig stops, listens to the next group as they slowly climb up to meet them. Stan and Kyle emerge first, and Craig nods them up.

"The next floor up is where the demons usually meet," he says quietly. "Cartman may be up there, maybe Damian if you're really unlucky. Don't go through the door painted red; it'll lead you straight to Hell. There's a painting of an old man being eaten by a bunch of crows up there somewhere; it changes location every forty minutes. Behind it is a hallway. It'll lead you to Kenny's bedroom. If you're lucky—"

But he doesn't finish his sentence, doesn't know how without asking Stan and Kyle to show one of their oldest friends mercy, and he doesn't know if they _can_ , after everything. Stan and Kyle nod, almost in unison, and start up the stairs.

Token and Wendy show up afterwards. Craig waves them over, motioning to the tall, narrow hallway around them, twisting out of sight and branching off into innumerable dead-ends.

"Keep right," he says. "If a door looks like it's hanging open, don't trust it. Damian cooked up this illusion that makes his wormholes look like open doors. If you fall into one, you're as good as dead. Eventually, you'll get to the holding cells and interrogation chambers."

Token and Wendy nod tightly, tightening their grip on their guns.

"Keep right," says again. "It'll feel like you're going in circles, but you're not. Trust me."

Wendy licks her lips, something like apprehension flashing quickly through her eyes. She turns quickly and silently makes her way down the hallway. Token follows; less than a second later, they vanish into the darkness.

"We go down," Craig says.

Gregory doesn't answer; Craig doesn't expect him too. When he steps back onto the staircase, it groans under his feet and transforms into a set of steep cement steps, with an archway engraved with dusty-looking runes Craig can’t quite translate. He takes a deep, fortifying breath, and leads the way down.

Craig's only ever been down here once before, two months and four days ago, about a week after Chaos elbowed his way into their lives again. The steps around them become grimy, stained with dirt and dried blood, and further down, the blood glistens in a faint, flickering way that tells Craig they're nearing the basement now. Eventually, the stone steps turn into dirt, and they level out into a long tunnel. There are torches lining each side of the tunnel, and it goes on for about a hundred yards, until it makes a sharp left.

On either side, there are seven heavy wooden doors, each bolted shut by an enormous block of wood. Craig wonders when, exactly, they ended up in a 1930s horror film.

"What do you expect to find here?" Gregory asks almost pleasantly.

Craig shrugs.

"This is the place Chaos keeps most secret," Craig answers. "I figured that whatever is most important to him would be down here."

Gregory doesn't answer, just crosses into the tunnel and starts peering into the tiny, roughly carved portholes on the first few doors. Craig follows suit, unsure what they might be looking for. Almost immediately, he wishes he had sent anyone else down here.

There are _people_ in those rooms, or, the remains of people. The first room he looks into is almost pitch black, but the little light that bleeds into the room from the tunnel falls across something red and slimy and still oozing. Craig thinks of the pictures in his old anatomy book, detailing the four chambers of a human heart and feels sick to his stomach. He goes to the next door, which isn't much better. At least the person chained to the wall is alive, although his labored breathing suggests that he won't be for much longer.

"Here," Gregory says, and Craig tears his eyes away from the sight to where Gregory is trying to heave the heavy wooden crossbeam off of its hinge.

Craig rushes over to help, and together, they manage to heave the crossbeam up and away. The door creaks open loudly, and Craig quickly scans the tunnel around them, terrified that someone will have heard them. Gregory is already in the room, rushing to the figure bound to the metal chair in the center of the room. Gregory pulls a knife from somewhere and cuts his bindings, and when the boy's hair flashes in the torchlight, Craig feels the bottom of his stomach drop. He rushes over and rips the bindings off, but when he circles to face the boy, Craig feels his hope bleed out of him in bitter disappointment.

"Pip?" he says, bewildered.

Pip looks up at him; his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and a long gash runs from his forehead, down through his right tear-duct, and down to his upper lip, swollen and angry with infection.

"Hello, Craig, Gregory," he says, his voice sounding raspy. He brings a hand up to gingerly rub at his unmarked eye, and Craig sees that there is an oozing purple stump where his pointer should be. "I guess you've found me."

"Jesus Christ, Pip," Craig says weakly, even as Gregory pulls Pip gingerly to his feet.

Gregory meets Craig's eyes, and Craig nods in understanding.

"Take him back," Craig says. "I'll find everyone else."

Gregory doesn't so much as nod his understanding. He just wraps an arm around Pip's waist and half-drags, half-carries him out. Craig waits until he can't hear their uneven footsteps anymore before he peeks out the door and rushes to the cement stairs again.

They make a sound almost like a high-pitched giggle and morph back into the long winding metal stairs, and Craig climbs up, trying to decide which group would be easier to find.

“The fuck are you doing alive?” a familiar voice asks from the shadows.

Craig nearly jumps out of his skin before thinking that, well, at least he doesn’t have to go looking for trouble this time.

"Damian," Craig says on an exhale. "I thought—"

"Wait," Damian says, narrowing his eyes and taking a step forward. Craig thinks, shit, Death is coming now, but Damian stops two feet away from him, eying the metal staircase behind him suspiciously. "You were just downstairs, weren't you?"

"Uh," Craig says, unsure if the truth or a lie would be better right now.

Damian's eyes start glowing in the darkness.

"Answer me," he says quietly.

Which, okay, yeah.

"Yeah," Craig says.

Damian lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl, baring his pointed teeth menacingly. He takes a step forward.

"Where is he?" Damian breathes.

Craig blinks.

"Sorry, what?"

 _"Where is Pip?"_

There's a moment of complete silence then, broken by Craig's sharp breathing.

"You're fucking kidding, right?"

By the way Damian's eyes flash in the darkness, he guesses that's a no.

Craig has a hard time believing that everyone Chaos has been working with isn't really interested in the whole world-domination thing. Actually, he's got a hard time believing that _Damian_ was coerced into this whole mess the same way Craig was. But he can't deny it. Now that he knows what he's looking for, Damian's furious scowl is marred with just the tinniest streak of fear, concern.

And shit, Craig gets that.

Which is why it takes him less than a second to make up his mind. He turns on his heel and heads down the spiral staircase, straining to hear Damian following him. But he kind of feels like fucking Orpheus at this point, like if he turns around Damian will disappear into a cloud of smoke and run back to Chaos.

When did this shit turn him into a poetic sap?

They're back outside in under a minute; Craig can see three dark blobs out by the nearest tree, and Craig approaches slowly. Stan, Token and Christophe are huddled around the tree, silent as a fucking grave. They've obviously been watching his and Damian's approach, because when they get closer, Craig can see the hate painted across Stan's face, the disgust written in the way Token holds up his gun.

Christophe and Damian eye each other critically; Craig gets the feeling that everything can go sour really quick if these two can't trust each other. Christophe is leaning lazily against the handle of his shovel, and after a terse moment, he pulls it out of the ground and slings it easily over his shoulder.

"Are we doing zis then?" he asks.

"Are you fucking with me?" Stan asks. He turns back to Craig furiously. "I knew we shouldn't have trusted you. You bring fucking Damian, of all people? Are you sick in the head?"

"Dude, shut up," Craig says. "He's on our side. Sort of. In that he’s not really on Chaos’ side."

Damian remains silent, his eyes burning in the darkness. Not exactly the picture of cooperation, but he hasn't killed any of them yet, so Craig thinks that's about as indicative of his position as he's likely to get. Stan seems to realize this too, because after a second his fury melts away into something manageable.

"Where’s Pip?" Damian asks quietly

"With Gregory," Stan says, turns and leads the way back to the dingy shack they met up in earlier.

The walk back feels interminably longer; Craig entertains the thought that Damian somehow moved all of Carl's Warehouse to the other side of Denver before the little building looms on the horizon.

"Did everyone make it out okay?" Craig asks when they're less than a five minute walk from the shack. “Did you find Tweek?”

Stan stumbles slightly, his face ashen in the dim moonlight.

"I lost Kyle," he says quietly, with a tiny waver in his voice. "He told me to go, made me promise. I—"

He stops himself when they reach the front door, looks helplessly to Token for support. Token clenches his jaw and raps on the door with six quick staccato knocks. Craig blinks, can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

"Kyle's good at getting himself out of shit," Token says, but even to Craig it sounds like a lie.

Stan nods quickly, stuffs his trembling hands into the pockets of his jeans. The door opens and all the four of them scramble into the building.

Craig notes Tweek’s absence immediately, feels it cut into his chest and twist painfully with every second that passes. Gregory, Wendy, and Pip are in the living room. Wendy is busy trying to coax a fire to life in the grate; Gregory is perched on the back of an old chair, feeling around the top of a crumbling bookshelf for something. But it's to Pip that Craig's eyes immediately drag to, the way he's been bundled up in a moldy, moth-eaten quilt, the way his blond hair is lank and unkempt in a way that Craig hadn't notice before.

And then Damian is crossing the room suddenly, energy crackling off of him like he could summon a fucking lightning bolt if he wanted to; in six even, measured steps he's in front of Pip, kneeling in front of him and tucking a strand of blond hair behind Pip's ear in a surprisingly gentle way.

“Damian?” Pip says, quietly, like he can’t really believe it.

Damian brings his hand up to curl protectively at the nape of Pip’s neck, and even though he’s still scowling, even though everything about him is sharp and dangerous and radiates fury, there’s a split second when the image sort of cracks, looks vulnerable and _mortal_. Damian squints his eyes shut and rests their foreheads together, and Craig has to look away, feeling suddenly awkward, like he’s intruded on an intimate moment.

Gregory steps off the chair with a first-aid kit in hand, his eyes flickering between Damian and Pip, to Christophe, and back again.

“Wendy,” Damian says suddenly. “Move.”

Wendy jumps up from her spot in front of the fireplace. There’s a rustle of displaced energy, and suddenly a fire is crackling merrily in the pile of splintered wood inside the grate.

“So, what do we do now?” Token asks after a moment.

Damian looks up, and his eyes start glowing again, bright blue this time, burning with the heat of a fucking star.

“We go back,” Damian says decisively. “I’ve called back the demons, the labyrinth, his fucking magic tricks. Everything. Let him try and stop us.”

“I’ll stay,” Token says, his voice measured, level. “See what I can do about that infected cut on Pip’s face.”

Gregory hands him the first-aid kit wordlessly, his face grim.

“Are we ready?” Gregory asks, turning to each of them in turn and waiting for them each to give a sign of acknowledgement. “Let’s go.”

“Damian,” Pip says again, the plea obvious in his voice.

Damian looks conflicted for all of four seconds before he drops back down to his knees.

“I’m here, Pip,” he says, taking Pip’s uninjured hand and interlacing their fingers. He turns to Christophe, a different kind of intensity in his eyes than what Craig is used to. “Make him suffer,” he says, and Christophe fucking _smiles_ at that.

***

Butters is waiting for Eric behind Mr. Denkins’ pony ranch for less than five minutes before Eric saunters by, dragging something large and heavy-looking behind him. He sets it down with an ominous thud and wipes his hands idly on his pant legs. When he finally notices Butters, he smiles widely and motions him over. Butters approaches nervously, letting his fingers drag over the tender scabs on his knuckles.

“Heya, Eric,” he says nervously. Now that he’s closer, Butters can tell that the heavy object is like a large metal cube. Butters feels a trickle of fear climb up his spine. He’s not good in enclosed spaces. “Wh-what exactly did you need me for?”

“I need you to test out my new Jew trap,” Eric says calmly.

“Oh, I don’t know, Eric,” Butters says, lacing his fingers together and gripping them tightly. “I-I don’t think you should be hunting Jewish folks like they—like they were rabbits or somethin’.”

Eric rolls his eyes and opens the trap door with some effort.

“Don’t be stupid Butters,” Eric says. “I’m not hunting _Jews_. Just Kyle.”

“Oh,” Butters says, although that doesn’t really make anything better. “Still, I don’t understand—”

“Butters look,” Eric says, already pushing him roughly into the box. It’s cold and ominously dark in there; Butters isn’t sure if he wants to help Eric with this crazy experiment. “I just need you to make sure Kyle can’t get out of here once I lock him in. Okay?”

“W-well how am I supposed to do that?”

Eric rolls his eyes.

“Kyle is like, the Houdini of Jews, dude,” he says. “I need to make sure this thing is fool-proof before I trap him. So just, I don’t know, try to find a way out once you’re shut in, okay?”

“I—I don’t know, Eric,” Butters says, panicking slightly when the heavy metallic door clangs shut. Butters hears the click of a lock. “I’m not too great with small spaces.”

“That’s great Butters,” Eric says, “try to use that to make yourself feel like you’re actually in danger.”

Butters rubs his knuckles together frantically, ignoring the sharp bite of his still-tender skin.

“Eric, I—I don’t know about this,” he calls out, loudly, in case his protests are muffled by the metal.

“Butters, can you hear me?”

“Y-yeah Eric,” Butters says. “I—I don’t see any way he can get out of here. It just looks like a metal box from in here. C-can you let me out yet?”

“Well of course it still looks like a metal box, Butters,” Eric says, a hint of impatience in his voice. “I haven’t shown you the best part yet.”

Butters hears some light tapping on what is probably a keypad or remote, and a small, rectangular hole appears along the base of the box. Butters can hear a several quick, tapping sounds coming from the darkness there.

“E-Eric,” Butters says, willing his voice not to screech as the first millipede crawls out. “Let me out. Please. I—I don’t know if I can help.”

“Just look for any weaknesses in the design, Butters,” Eric says, and he sounds almost bored.

Butters tries to do as he’s told, but he’s even worse with insects and bugs and—and spiders than he is with small spaces, and when the first eight-footed, long-legged arachnid crawls out towards him, Butters looses it. He starts banging his fists against the side of the box, not caring if Eric thinks he’s a coward.

“Eric! Let me out! Please,” he yells, looks around frantically for something that might help him get himself out of this mess. Nothing but dark metal walls stare back at him, smudged with all sorts of bugs and—“Eric, help me! Please!”

But from outside Butters thinks he hears a low, gruff voice that doesn’t sound like Eric at all. Seconds later, he hears Eric shout out a muffled curse, and a loud gunshot rents the air.

All the breath leaves Butters’ body; Farmer Denkins shoots trespassers on sight, he thinks. He’s all alone now.

Suddenly, it feels as if there’s not enough air to breathe properly. He bangs his fists against the door, desperately, inhaling in a short, frantic, shallow rhythm.

“Help, oh help,” he says to no one in particular.

He’s nauseous suddenly from the fear, feels like he might die if he doesn’t find a way out from all the things crawling up his legs and down the back of his head.

“I can help you, Butters,” Chaos says, and Butters isn’t thinking, can’t see past the bright spots of fear that blur everything and make it technicolor and painful.

 _Help me, help me, help me, please,_ he thinks desperately and—

So Chaos stands, brushing the dirt off his shirt slowly, careful to avoid the various animals he's been locked with. Chaos hates, _hates_ being locked away, ignored, forgotten. He will not be ignored.

His name is Chaos, and he will make Eric Cartman pay. If he has to turn the whole planet to ruin, he will make Eric Cartman _suffer_.

It's easy to escape the metal contraption he's been put into, Cartman's inexpert engineering skills painfully obvious in the weak welding he's used. Chaos feels the bones of his wrist snap as he forces the lock, but it's of no consequence to him. He has things to do.

However, now that he's out of that cage, his rage subsides slightly, and he remembers he's got a promise to keep.

He remembers the way to Linda's house. She's as monotonous as a fucking clock, and oh, how Chaos _hates_ her. He wrote a promise on her bathroom mirror all those months ago, written in her disgusting lipstick that _Stephen was first, but don’t worry, you'll be second._ He doesn't want to be impolitic and continue with his plans of revenge without visiting her.

The deep black of the night is lightening slightly; Chaos believes it will be another hour, at least, until sunrise. He allows himself a smile. Perfect. This will not take long.

He breaks into her house silently, with the ease of long forgotten muscle-memory, going into the kitchen and searching for something that might make this excursion fun. His eyes linger on the heavy bone shears lying innocently on the counter top.

Yes. Those will do.

The weight of the shears is familiar in his hands, dimming the bright shots of pain that still linger around his wrist bone.

He creeps up the stairs like a breeze ghosting through the drapes, silent. Linda sleeps with the door open; months of living alone have left her feeling secure within her own house. Chaos is disappointed in her. When he moves into the room, he deliberately steps on the creaky floorboards, the ones that will wake Linda up no matter how deep her sleep has been.

Linda's head turns to the side on her pillow, fighting sentience, no doubt. Chaos stands over her and waits; he is in no rush. Finally, her eyes creak open blearily, looking around the room. Her eyes settle on Chaos and for a second, she doesn't react. Then she gasps, pulls herself up into a sitting position and pulls the sheets up with her, like they might offer her a modicum of protection.

"Butters, what are you doing here?" she asks.

"Not Butters," Chaos says, the name a vile, disgusting flavor that sits on his tongue.

Linda blinks, then the memory no doubt swims back into her sleep-addled brain. Chaos can _smell_ her fear.

"Chaos," she breathes.

Chaos smiles.

"My, my, my," Chaos says idly, letting his eyes wander around the bedroom lazily. Her belongings are cluttered around her dresser, the large vanity mirror on the opposite side of the room. It's disgustingly ordinary. "Someone's gotten smarter since we last spoke."

"What do you want from me?" she asks, her voice breaking.

"Nothing in particular," Chaos answers. He smiles at her, all teeth and no amusement. "I just want to have some fun, Mother."

Linda screams, but Chaos is far beyond caring.

Chaos doesn't bother to wash up after he's done with Linda—the bitch, Chaos is glad to be rid of her, glad she screamed like the whore she was when he clipped off her fingers, one by one—figures that the sight will be very impressive to his friend. It is still very early; the sun only just creeping up over the top of the mountains, and Chaos is in a very good mood.

He hums a soft tune to himself as he climbs up the faded porch steps, buzzes the doorbell once. The door opens just a sliver, and a small, red-headed boy peers through.

"Hello Dougie," Chaos says pleasantly.

Dougie opens the door wider, watching him intently. He doesn't say a word.

"I think we need to speak," Chaos says after an appropriately dramatic silence.

In response, Dougie stands aside and allows Chaos into his house. Chaos makes himself comfortable.

"Chaos?" Dougie asks, quietly, like he might be afraid of the answer.

"This is why we're friends, Dougie," Chaos says, baring his teeth in a mangled approximation of a grin. "You always get my name right."

"What are you doing here?" he asks, pushing his glasses up the ridge of his nose.

"I need your help," Chaos says sincerely.

Dougie looks surprised for the span of a heartbeat; to his credit, he gets over the shock quite well.

"Oh."

"That's what pals are for, anyway, right?" Chaos asks, in an echo of the tentative voice that so many people trust.

Dougie blinks at him, before a tentative smile appears on his face.

"Yeah," he says. "I guess so."

"You're a real pal, Dougie," Chaos says and means it.

"What did you need my help with?"

"Oh, you'll see," Chaos says, and allows himself a brief, indulgent smile.

***

This time, they fly across the miles separating their shack and Carl’s Warehouse, seeming to get there within the span of a heartbeat. The rusty, metal door creaks open loudly when they try it, and for a second Craig doesn’t know where the fuck they are, he’s so used to the maze Damian had turned the warehouse into. But now, there are old, dusty crates pushed up against the walls, long grey tarps covering moldy boxes nearly eaten away with time. It’s dank and still pretty creepy, but for the first time in a long while, it looks almost _normal_.

Stan immediately runs off, disappearing within seconds behind the stacks of crates and boxes; Craig knows exactly who he’s looking for. Which reminds him suddenly, that Tweek is still trapped in here somewhere too, and he sets off in a random direction, searching.

It takes him longer than he would have thought to find Tweek, maybe because his body still wants to weave its way through trap doors and spiraling staircases that no longer exist. Oddly enough, he finds the steep cement steps leading to the basement easily enough, and the roughly carved archway also. Craig wonders at it for a second, but then he hears voices drifting up from the bottom landing, and Craig doesn’t have time to think about a fucking archway.

He takes the steps two at a time, nearly falling on his face when he reaches the uneven ground; it looks exactly the same as it had earlier, with its sealed chambers and roughly carved out walls. Kyle is sitting at the far end of the tunnel, hands on his knees and gun trained easily on the people before him. Kenny is on his knees in front of Chaos, who’s curled in on himself and shaking. On the floor in front of the two of them is a mangled body, bloody and beaten until it’s nearly indistinguishable. Craig can see a cap of shining brown hair and thinks, holy shit, that’s—

“Craig?” a familiar voice asks, and Craig’s thoughts scatter away easily. How the fuck did Craig not see him?

Craig drops his gun with a loud clatter and rushes to Tweek, catching the boy in his arms, everything else forgotten for the moment. Tweek is shaking in his arms, violently, and it takes Craig less than a second to recognize his own body is trembling as well, just enough so that Tweek can feel it and grip him tighter.

“Shit Tweek,” Craig says, breathes into the space above Tweek’s ear. “I’m sorry.”

“Dude, _I’m_ sorry!” Tweek tries to flail in Craig’s arms but just ends up elbowing Craig in the stomach. “I didn’t believe Stan when he said that you were—you know. And so I went to your place to find some answers but then like, the whole place was crawling with demons and—”

“Do you guys think you can have this little heart-to-heart sometime later?” Kyle asks from across the room. “Totally not the time.”

Less than a second later Stan rushes in, takes a long look around the room and stumbles over to Kyle, making himself comfortable in the space between Kyle’s knees. To his credit, though, Kyle hugs him back fiercely for about four seconds, before pushing Stan away and aiming his gun back to Chaos and Kenny. Craig tears his eyes away from Tweek for a minute and really looks at the pair of them, at Kenny and Chaos in the middle of the floor.

Kenny looks terrible; there are deep purple bags under his eyes, and a slowly purpling bruise is blooming on his cheekbone. There's a lot of blood on him, but he doesn't know if it's from Kenny himself or the body lying to their side.

"Craig," Kenny says, finally looking up. "Help me."

And shit, Kenny sounds so fucking desperate, about an inch away from flying apart. Chaos is still shaking, and now that he's listening for it, there's a strange anguished groaning emanating from him, like he's—

"Is he crying?" Craig asks, and all the anger evaporates from his body. "Is that—?"

"Butters," Kenny says, and he sounds so lost, five fucking years old again and doesn’t have a clue what to do. _Craig_ doesn't know what to do. "Help me," he says again.

It feels like Craig doesn't have a choice. He turns to Tweek, who catches his eye and nods at him sharply, giving permission. Then he kneels beside Kenny and—Butters. It really is Butters; Craig can tell the second the boy lifts his head.

"I'm—I'm sorry Craig," Butters whispers, his voice hoarse and utterly _wrecked_. "I'm so, so sorry."

Craig looks away, can't stand the sight of pure suffering that Butters has now become, the desperate way Kenny holds onto Butters' blood-soaked hand. His gaze falls on the bloody corpse beside them, and from this angle, Cartman's eyes stare up at him, shocked and glassy and very blank. In the dirt there are tiny rivulets of blood that run through strange, jagged crevices along the floor. Craig stares at them until they form a sentence in clear, methodical script.

 _Chaos always gets his revenge._

It doesn't make sense to Craig, but it takes his mind off of the choked-off, retching noises Butters is making at his side. He looks up again and sees Christophe, Gregory and Wendy all standing at the mouth of the tunnel, looking from Kyle and Stan in one corner, to Tweek in the other, and finally, down to Kenny, Butters, Craig and Cartman's body in the center of the clearing.

Christophe is the one who moves first. He walks up to Butters, nudges him with the sole of his boot until the boy is looking up at him with his tear-streaked eyes, and offers him his gun, handle-first. Butters looks at it for a long time. He takes a deep, ragged breath and blinks up at Christophe.

"Th-thank you," Butters says. Christophe shrugs and moves away, back to Gregory's side. Butters turns back to Kenny, his eyes clear and very blue again. Craig can't remember Chaos being anything other than darkness and death, thinks he’d remember if Chaos ever had blue eyes like that. "I'm sorry, Kenny," he whispers.

Very suddenly, Craig knows exactly what he plans to do. Kenny and he react almost in perfect synchronization, reaching towards Butters to take the weapon from his grip.

"Butters, no—"

"Don't—"

But the shot rings out loudly through the small rounded tunnel. Craig turns his head and closes his eyes, tries to pretend he doesn't hear Butters' limp body hit the floor with a dull thud.

"Butters," Kenny whispers, his voice quiet and strained like Craig's never heard it before.

He feels something brush against his neck, and when he looks up, Tweek is standing beside him, running his fingers reassuringly through Craig's hair. He takes a long, deep breath and stands.

"Let's go home," he says, mostly to Tweek.

Tweek smiles at him, and it feels like the first sunrise at Stark's Pond all over again, when he first realized he loved Tweek. Tweek leans against him and kisses him, short and chaste and sweet.

"I'd like that," he says.

It’s not okay; he doesn’t ever think he’ll _be_ okay, not after this. But with Tweek hugging him sweetly like he never wanted anything different, he lets himself hope that maybe, things can get better.

**Author's Note:**

> South Park and all its related people, places, names and ideas are the property of Matt Parker, Trey Stone, Comedy Central, and probably tons of other people who are Most Decidedly Not Me. No money is being made off of this fan-work and no copy-right infringement is intended.


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